Decide for yourself if the risk is worth it.”
She extended a small, linen-colored business card with a discreet black border. On it was a phone number. No name, no details, just a simple copperplate number inscribed in the center of the card.
“Thank you,” I repeated, blinking dumbly at it.
“I’ve already filled out the referral,” Dr. Robeson said. “All you need is to give hospice a call, if that’s what you decide. Or the other number—he’s expecting your call, too.”
“Yeah,” I said. I swallowed. “Goodbye.”
“Bye. Enjoy your Christmas,” the doctor said with reflexive pleasantry.
“Yeah,” I said again. I shoved the brochure and the card in my jacket pocket and stumbled from the office.
The carpeted halls of the office wing were dotted with nurses in scrubs and plastic clogs. I hated them all. Blinking hard, I willed them not to look at me and measured the distance from the oncology department to the nearest exit in my mind.
Keep it together for just a few seconds more, Cora. You’re almost there.
Head down, I blew past the bank of elevators and burst through the heavy fire door into the stairwell, forcing my tired legs to keep up as I flung myself down the stairs to the ground floor.
At the bottom, I ducked out the side door and into the cold. I found myself in a small, semi-concealed alcove between two wings of the building. No one could see me, at least for the moment. I let my legs give out, sinking to the sidewalk with my back against the institutional brick, half-gasping and half-sobbing.
Five months. Or less.
It wa sn’t fair!
Finals were next month. I’d already picked out my classes for the next semester. Sent in my tuition.
I wondered if I should withdraw. But why bother? It wasn’t like I’d live long enough even to owe payments on my student loans.
Enjoy your Christmas. The last Christmas I had enjoyed had been two years ago, before Gramma died. Now there was no one. I’d gone home with my roommate Lisette and her sister the last year, but it wasn’t the same. Now, I didn’t think I had the strength to try to smile through the season with the specter of my death hanging over the festivities. I’d already decided that it would be better for everyone if I stayed in our university apartment alone.
I dashed away the betraying tears and got my phone out of my pocket. Lisette would want to know the news. But I couldn’t make myself call.
I pulled the brochure out and smoothed it. There was a photograph, the edges artfully out of focus, of an elderly woman being hugged by a smiling model who could have been any age from thirty to fifty-five. The text was full of words like “care,” “comfort,” and “dignity.” The toll-free number stared at me, but I couldn’t make myself call it, either.
There was the other paper—the card, rather, small and mysterious with the single phone number on it. The cold from the hard cement under me was beginning to seep into my bones, and the wind chilled my wet cheeks. I shifted. What did I have to lose?
I entered the number and looked at it for a long moment before I touched the send button. The phone rang once, as it connected, then once again.
“Name?” The voice was male, light and impersonal.
Taken aback, it took me a moment to respond. “Cora Shaw.”
“Please proceed to the emergent care entrance, Ms. Shaw.” the man said. “A car will meet you there. Thank you.”
“But—” I said. I looked at the phone. The time was flashing on the display—he had already hung up.
C hapter Two
U m. Weird.
I thought about redialing, but I didn’t really see the point, except maybe to complain about him hanging up on me—which, on reflection, seemed like a pretty stupid thing to do.
Well, then. The emergent care entrance, he had said.
I pushed to my feet and looked around. The Johns Hopkins Bayview medical campus
She extended a small, linen-colored business card with a discreet black border. On it was a phone number. No name, no details, just a simple copperplate number inscribed in the center of the card.
“Thank you,” I repeated, blinking dumbly at it.
“I’ve already filled out the referral,” Dr. Robeson said. “All you need is to give hospice a call, if that’s what you decide. Or the other number—he’s expecting your call, too.”
“Yeah,” I said. I swallowed. “Goodbye.”
“Bye. Enjoy your Christmas,” the doctor said with reflexive pleasantry.
“Yeah,” I said again. I shoved the brochure and the card in my jacket pocket and stumbled from the office.
The carpeted halls of the office wing were dotted with nurses in scrubs and plastic clogs. I hated them all. Blinking hard, I willed them not to look at me and measured the distance from the oncology department to the nearest exit in my mind.
Keep it together for just a few seconds more, Cora. You’re almost there.
Head down, I blew past the bank of elevators and burst through the heavy fire door into the stairwell, forcing my tired legs to keep up as I flung myself down the stairs to the ground floor.
At the bottom, I ducked out the side door and into the cold. I found myself in a small, semi-concealed alcove between two wings of the building. No one could see me, at least for the moment. I let my legs give out, sinking to the sidewalk with my back against the institutional brick, half-gasping and half-sobbing.
Five months. Or less.
It wa sn’t fair!
Finals were next month. I’d already picked out my classes for the next semester. Sent in my tuition.
I wondered if I should withdraw. But why bother? It wasn’t like I’d live long enough even to owe payments on my student loans.
Enjoy your Christmas. The last Christmas I had enjoyed had been two years ago, before Gramma died. Now there was no one. I’d gone home with my roommate Lisette and her sister the last year, but it wasn’t the same. Now, I didn’t think I had the strength to try to smile through the season with the specter of my death hanging over the festivities. I’d already decided that it would be better for everyone if I stayed in our university apartment alone.
I dashed away the betraying tears and got my phone out of my pocket. Lisette would want to know the news. But I couldn’t make myself call.
I pulled the brochure out and smoothed it. There was a photograph, the edges artfully out of focus, of an elderly woman being hugged by a smiling model who could have been any age from thirty to fifty-five. The text was full of words like “care,” “comfort,” and “dignity.” The toll-free number stared at me, but I couldn’t make myself call it, either.
There was the other paper—the card, rather, small and mysterious with the single phone number on it. The cold from the hard cement under me was beginning to seep into my bones, and the wind chilled my wet cheeks. I shifted. What did I have to lose?
I entered the number and looked at it for a long moment before I touched the send button. The phone rang once, as it connected, then once again.
“Name?” The voice was male, light and impersonal.
Taken aback, it took me a moment to respond. “Cora Shaw.”
“Please proceed to the emergent care entrance, Ms. Shaw.” the man said. “A car will meet you there. Thank you.”
“But—” I said. I looked at the phone. The time was flashing on the display—he had already hung up.
C hapter Two
U m. Weird.
I thought about redialing, but I didn’t really see the point, except maybe to complain about him hanging up on me—which, on reflection, seemed like a pretty stupid thing to do.
Well, then. The emergent care entrance, he had said.
I pushed to my feet and looked around. The Johns Hopkins Bayview medical campus
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